dripping with alchemy
by Agent of the Apothecary
Summary: Mary Margaret Blanchard and Liam Whale have exactly two dates. The first doesn't count as a date, because Mary Margaret has some standards, and two orgasms against a parked car do not count. Ever.


**Story:** dripping with alchemy

**Summary:** Mary Margaret Blanchard and Liam Whale have exactly two dates. The first doesn't count as a date, because Mary Margaret has some standards, and two orgasms against a parked car do _not_ count. Ever.

**Notes:** I have so many feelings about Snow and James. So many feelings, that I tried to write about Mary Margaret and Dr. Whale having their one-night stand and it (surprise!) not being disastrous but instead cathartic and what I GOT, instead, was this.

* * *

><p>Liam's grin makes him look like a wolf. Not the good kind that Mary Margaret reads about in romance novels featuring men with enormous shoulders and husky voices and powerful thighs but the kind that is mangy and scavenges in Dumpsters and steals chickens.<p>

He looks like he wants to steal _her_ chickens.

"Oh my god," she says faintly as she stares at her reflection in the mirror. She looks pretty good, all things considered, in a dress that is probably a little bit racy for a primary school teacher who hasn't been laid in recent memory. She's supposed to be fixing her eyeliner, but it's a bit hard to do that and have a panic attack at the same time.

"Shh," she tells herself, "it's going to be okay."

Critically, she examines herself. Good teeth, nice face, relatively okay chest to hip ratio; she's not exactly Kathryn Nolan, but she's certainly got enough of the right something (lack of shame? Oh god, a parked _car_, seriously, if Emma ever finds out she's never going to hear the end of it) to attract Liam Whale, and he goes through women with enough alacrity to have _some_ standards.

This isn't going well. Mary Margaret takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and leans forward to finish touching up her eyeliner. No more Kathryn Nolan. No more of Liam's alpha male tendency to sleep his way through Storybrooke's female under-50 population.

Tonight is about fun! She can do fun.

"You can do fun," she tells herself, and puts the cap back on her eyeliner.

"How do you feel about dessert to go?" Liam asks her with another wolf grin. It's surprisingly enticing, in the flickering light of the table's jarred tea light. Mary Margaret pauses in returning her napkin to her lap and considers her options. She could prolong a half-painful semi-discussion about all the things they don't have in common, or she could give up the illusion of making a meaningful connection and just have sex.

"Get the check," she tells him.

* * *

><p>Liam's apartment is stereotypical to an almost boring degree. His furniture is all from IKEA; his sheets are brown. He pours them both a glass of whiskey, which isn't really necessary after the bottle of wine they finished at the restaurant. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" she asks, grinning at him over the lip of the glass. "Because you've already succeeded."<p>

"Well, in that case," he says, and tosses her over his shoulder. It startles a laugh out of her, and she finishes the glass of whiskey and drops it on a side table as they pass it on the way to his bedroom.

Liam surprises her. He takes his time, even though he is drunk and his hands are shaking from wanting and there is a little bit of ferocity in the nips he gives her. He strips off her dress and her stockings and kisses along her thighs and runs the pads of his fingers down her waist to her hips. "You're beautiful," he says. In the dim glow of his bedside lap, he looks a little bit startled. "You're so goddamn beautiful, Mary Margaret."

"Thank you," she says hesitantly, awkwardly. "Um, are you going to stay over there all night?" She fights—and wins—to keep her hands from covering her chest. Her hands twist in the cotton of his sheets, and she forces her fingers free, to pull him towards her by his tie. It's been such a long time—and a few frantic tugs against a parked car do _not _count.

"Tell me what you want," he says, nuzzling her neck.

"You," she says, surprised and pleased with herself because it's an honest answer. Right now, Liam is exactly what she wants.

"I can do that," he promises her. "And much more."

* * *

><p>Liam has a shift at eight and she has to be at the school by eight-thirty, so they walk together to Granny's and share a table by the window. Normally, Mary Margaret picks her seat so she has an optimal view of the door—all the better to torture herself when David comes by for his morning coffee—but she's feeling optimistic today.<p>

"What do you want?" Liam asks as he stands.

"Coffee—milk, no sugar," she says, and smiles at him. She's not in love, but it's a pleasantly almost-drunk feeling, satiated and full. Like all of her limbs are settled. It must show on her face, because Liam grins.

"Coffee for the lady," he agrees, and goes to order.

Of course, that's when David walks in, all smiles and golden sunshine and perfection. He looks confused for a second, as though he's never seen an empty table before, and then his eyes flick right to left and then far right, to where Mary Margaret is sitting in the window table.

"Good morning," he says to her, his smile ratcheting up a notch. Mary Margaret tries to hold onto that feeling of fullness, but it's slipping from her fingers.

She replies, "Good morning," and looks to Liam, to try and recover something of the feeling. Of course, it's an empty hope; it isn't Liam that makes her feel happy, it's herself. She's happy because she did something that didn't involve stalking David Nolan.

The feeling withers. To try and buck it up, she says, "How's the shelter?"

"It's good," says David. He sounds distracted now, glancing over at counter where Liam is chatting at Ruby as she fills up two take-away cups. "We got a pair of kittens yesterday that spent the whole exam trying to sleep in the sink in the exam room."

"Really?" Mary Margaret grins. This is good; the interaction feels natural, not like she's picking at a scab. Of course, recovery will take time, but she's got plenty of that. Mary Margaret _always_ has time on her hands. "They sound adorable."

"They were," David agrees. He puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. "Listen," he says, and the tenor of the conversation shifts abruptly, out of the safety zone into _DANGER DANGER DANGER_. "I wanted to talk to you—"

Liam makes a noise in the back of his throat. "Morning, Mr. Nolan."

"Dr. Whale," says David, flustered. "Good morning."

"Excuse me," says Liam, looking unimpressed and gesturing with one of the cups towards the chair that David blocking. "Can I get by?"

"Yeah, of course," says David blankly, but it takes him a few seconds to move. Mary Margaret accepts her coffee and takes a sip, purposely looking at a spot between David and Liam that doesn't require that she make eye contact with either of them. "Can you come by the shelter later?" he asks Mary Margaret, his tone still stuck in bad, do-not-enter territory.

"Um," says Mary Margaret.

She looks at Liam, who is staring at David with an incredibly unfriendly expression. She tries to remember what he said to her, a week ago. _By never knowing what's expected. Keep life interesting_.

This is not interesting. This is the same trap. "Sure," she tells David finally, looking up quickly enough to give him a smile and then away again. "How about at four?"

"Four it is," he agrees, and steps away, to Ruby and the coffee machine.

"He hasn't been bothering you, has he?" asks Liam, leaning forward and resting his hand lightly over hers. "Sometimes you get patients who cling to their nurses—it can get to be a problem."

"No, no, it's nothing like that," Mary Margaret assures him, with a smile that hopefully doesn't look as fake as it feels. She turns her hand over and lets their palms rest, lightly, against one another. "Anyway," she says, "haven't you got a shift at eight?"

"Oh, damn, yeah," he says, picking up his cup and taking a fast sip. "Call me?"

"No," she says, slowly, working herself up to meeting his eyes by starting as his hands. "I don't think so." His fingers don't even shift on his cup; it gives her the courage to look at his face, which is set in a light, open expression.

"Yeah," he agrees. "I understand."

She's glad at least someone does.

* * *

><p>After school, Mary Margaret spends half an hour tidying her classroom and organizing her lesson plan for the next day. It's 3:45 before she even really thinks about it, and she locks up her room behind her as she leaves, bundling her coat around her and taking the semi-familiar path to the animal shelter.<p>

Inside, David is swearing at a cup of pencils. Her laugh is instinctual, and he jerks his head up, scowling, as he tries to collect his scattered writing utensils. "That's some mighty strong language," she tells him. "And all for a couple of pens?"

"It's not been a great day," he tells her. His mood is so black it's practically caricature.

"Well, what's on your mind?" she asks, suppressing the wringing of her hands down to a trembling grasp at the sleeves of her coat. The lobby to the animal shelter feels too small for them, together. She realizes that there's a wayward pencil at her feet (too late) as he comes forward and goes on one knee to pick it up.

There's a moment, when he stops and looks up at her, pencil in his hand; the tableau feels lined in gold, shining, heavy. His expression has a weightiness to it that she cannot account for. _Your majesty_, his expression says—is it his expression? Something reminds her of the phrase.

"I wanted to talk to you," he says, still at her feet. "But I seem to have forgotten why."

"Stand up," she says quietly.

"Do you feel that?"

"Stand _up_, David," she hisses, and takes a quick half step backwards. With a quick shake of her head, she asks, as steadily as can be expected of her, "Why did you ask me to meet you?"

"I wanted to talk to you," he finally says, "about the bridge."

Mary Margaret closes her eyes for a second against the surge of pain and loathing that rise in her throat. It's not enough that he's married, that he's making his marriage work, that he's _rejected_ her—now he wants to _talk_ about it?

"No," she says, "no, this isn't happening. Good-bye, David."

"Mary Margaret—" She turns on her heel and stomps out of the animal shelter, at a pace that might be a dignified run. She hears the door clang after her. "Mary Margaret!" he yells, "Stop, wait."

Of course she stops. It's a story-of-my-life kind of thing. "_What_?" she says, whirling on him. "What more could you _possibly_ have to say?"

He is still advancing on her, down the path that leads to the main road. "I was jealous," he says, suddenly.

"Oh my _god_," she mutters, passing a hand over her eyes. "Of who? Liam?" She swallows down the laugh, bitter and brittle, that wants to rise out of her throat. "Don't be an idiot, David, it was just sex."

He has a peculiar look on his face. "What," he says.

"I'm not in love with Liam Whale," she tells him. "I'm still reeling from the emotional bombshell of you _ripping my heart out_. So please, don't think that I've flightily moved on in my affections or whatever nonsense is fluttering through your head." This is awful. Speaking about this is awful; it's too wretched. It's been a week since the bridge; she wants to die more and more every second.

"That's—"

"Listen," she interrupts, cutting off whatever hideously consoling thing the happily married man is going to share with the poor heartbroken reject, "Storybrooke is small, but it's our home. I'm sure if we just agree to go our separate ways but stay friendly, we can handle this. I promise I won't make a scene."

"It's not you that's been difficult." He's right, of course. Mary Margaret can be pathetic and, on occasion, more angst-ridden than even Ruby at her most _Twilight_-obsessed, but she's not dramatic. David's face is frustrated and cornered. "I don't want it to be like this," he says, finally.

"It doesn't have to be," Mary Margaret assures him. "We're both adults; this was a bit of an infatuation. Hospitals have that effect on people."

David stares at her hands, the ring she is nervously twisting around her finger. "Of course," he says, a little hollowly. "These things—happen."

"Yep," says Mary Margaret, and she turns on her heel and leaves before he can see that she's begun to cry.

* * *

><p>Mary Margaret sleeps for exactly one hour between four and five and then gives REM up as a lost cause and rolls herself out of a bed at six for a long shower and a bowl of oatmeal. The apartment is depressing in the soft light of the morning, so she stuffs a weepy novel into her bag and goes to Granny's for coffee. It's 7:15 and she's three chapters in when the doorbell chimes.<p> 


End file.
